It's a sunny Sunday in Monaco.

The sky is blue, the water is sparkling and the asphalt is already vibrating with adrenaline.

We're standing around on the bus. Me, Kimi, Gabriel, Jack, Isack and Franco.

The usual suspects.

Sunglasses on, laughing, small talk as always before the lights go out.

I lean casually against the railing next to Kimi. Soon the bus would be driving through the narrow streets, the crowd already buzzing.

Everything feels familiar.

Then she arrives.

Not just anyone. The It Girl.

She doesn't even need an introduction.

She walks down the line like a scene out of a music video. As if she owns the asphalt we'll be driving on.

A small plan in her hand.

A hint of attitude on her face.

And an outfit that hovers somewhere between Chanel precision and Versace drama.

The sun reflects in her slightly oversized sunglasses. Her jacket, draped over her shoulders, flaps deliberately carelessly.

Even the way she holds her Caramel Cream Frappuccino seems choreographed.

Elegant. As if it means something. As if it says something.

Her lip gloss shimmers like a show-off.

Her walk? Confident, with that understated cheekiness that can't be faked.

She doesn't look at anyone. She doesn't need to.

And yet, all eyes are on her.

Even the camera crew hesitates, unsure whether to film her or just get out of her way.

I'm mid-sentence with Kimi when I see her.

Time simply stands still.

My sunglasses slip a bit off my nose. My lips part, but all I can manage is a soft "Holy sh*t."

"Dude, you're drooling." Kimi mutters.

I don't move.

She walks right past us, her aura filled with rich-girl energy and unaffected grace.

Not a glance. Not a smile. Just her.

A hint of vanilla hangs in the air as she passes.

Sweet, dramatic, unforgettable.

No coincidence. A statement.

"Who is that?" I whisper.

Franco grins. "I think she's interviewing us today."

At that moment, as if on cue, she turns her head.

Barely.

Her sunglasses lower, just enough so that her gaze peeks over them and falls directly on me.

A look.

Long. Measured.

As if she's studying me in a silent moment that lasts too long to be nothing.

And then...she moves on.

She walks to the back of the bus, letting every single man in the grid be overwhelmed by her presence.

I still haven't moved.

“Good luck in the race." Isack says, laughing and patting me on the shoulder.

But my gaze remains fixed.

Because there she is. With her back straight, microphone in hand.

She's looking directly into the camera, as if she were born in front of one.